


minor fall, major lift

by whitenoisce



Category: NCT (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Skating, Character Study, Coach!Mark, Featuring: Soup as a supporting character, Figure Skater!Donghyuck, Fluff, Introspection, M/M, Mutual Pining, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-20
Updated: 2020-12-20
Packaged: 2021-03-10 18:14:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,634
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28191519
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whitenoisce/pseuds/whitenoisce
Summary: There’s a fire in Haechan’s eyes that seems to melt everything around him—the ice, the dawn, and the scattered remains of Mark’s dwindling resolve. It’s another one of those things that could be one or the other, and Mark can whirl himself dizzy on a sit spin for days and still not understand what Haechan could possibly mean by giving him gold.OrThe one in which Mark thinks Haechan is a sack of rice, and soup can be a metaphor for many things.
Relationships: Lee Donghyuck | Haechan/Mark Lee
Comments: 66
Kudos: 367





	minor fall, major lift

**Author's Note:**

> Most of the other terms that you'll run into here will probably just be names for figure skating spins and jumps, so you don't have to worry! 
> 
> But just to clarify, an exhibition piece is something a skater has prepared for after the individual events are over, and it's usually reserved for people who place on the podium (or come close)! If you've watched a skating video before with the lights off and a spotlight following the skater, then that's probably an exhibition skate!

_I'm findin' ways to articulate_  
_The feeling I'm goin' through_  
_I just can't say I don't love you_  
_'Cause I love you, yeah_  
_\- Die for You, The Weeknd_

Everybody had thought Mark crazy—completely out of his mind, when he announced at age 21 that he would be retiring from professional figure skating. 

No, it’s not a break. _Click. Flash._ I’m gone for good. _Click. Flash._ Why? I don’t know. Guess there’s just nothing here for me anymore. _Click. Click. Flash. Flash. Flash._

The news took the entire figure skating world by storm. 

Fans cried and critics prattled and Johnny didn’t talk to him for months. That last one didn’t come as a surprise. He was _supposed_ to discuss retirement plans with his coach before he made any announcements to the public. But then again, he was also _supposed_ to be happy with what he was doing, and at that time Mark was anything but. 

It was only fair game. A large concluding push in exchange for every little piece of soul that the universe pulled out of him on his way to becoming the most decorated skater in history of men’s figure skating. Well, that was what his mother had wanted anyway; six year old Mark Lee just thought everyone was pretty and wanted to do twizzles on the ice. 

In the end, he didn’t even get to do it—having walked away three years too early to really dig his toe pick into the record books. They said he could’ve been the next Plushenko if he had put his mind to it, but Mark had long stopped considering wasted potential. The ice was noise and gold was just another color. Eventually, they all just stopped talking. 

That was five years ago, and most everyone had forgotten about Mark Lee—all but one. 

While Mark was spending his retirement crunching code for a local webdev start up, twenty one year old Lee Haechan emerged from the depths of his first Grand Prix bearing bronze and a kiss and cry confession addressed to an old has-been the world has forgotten about. 

Mark was in the dairy aisle of the supermarket when he got the text from Johnny, telling him to “ _stop ignoring me and get your ass on twitter,”_ which he did but not before picking up a carton of free range eggs and driving himself home. He finally pulled up the app after two hours over a plate of sunny sides, and eleven months later found him here: standing at the edge of his hometown rink, leading Korea’s podium sweetheart to his first GPF gold. 

That is, if he actually listens to Mark and starts sticking his landings. 

“Free leg, Haechan!” Mark shouts, voice piercing through the program music. It’s too early in the morning that dawn hasn’t even broken yet, but this is the only time they can have the rink all to themselves. 

He hears Haechan grumble through a spread eagle, shouting back an indignant, “I’m trying!” before taking off into his final quad salchow. Mark knew it would be his last not because the song was anywhere near its end, but simply because Haechan has never been good at following orders. 

Mark is already on the ice when Haechan falls, landing on his ass and skidding around a couple meters to the right. He supposes the direction doesn’t really matter now. Once you fall from a certain grace, there’s no use in knowing which way is up or down. 

He crouches on the ice, assessing Haechan’s lithe form with a careful eye. Nothing seems to be broken, not even his spirit. 

“If you’re here to tell me I told you so,” Haechan says, giving him a pointed look. “You can save it. I _know_ the free leg was bent when I took off, no need to drill it in my head.”

“Spot on.” Mark hums in acknowledgement. “You’re getting better at picking out your mistakes.” 

“Yeah, well that’s because you won’t shut up about them,” Haechan says, picking up half of himself and leaning back onto his forearms. The cold is sure to seep into his bones if he stays like this, and Mark gets rudely reminded of how he has to stock up the pantry in case Haechan comes down with something. “Always on my ass about that damn leg.” 

“And for good reason.” Mark stands and holds out a hand for Haechan to take. “You’re going against Ten in the NHK and that alone is enough to butcher your odds. If you keep up that lousy form, then you won’t even stand a chance at the podium,” he says. “I won’t lay off you until you land those salchows.” 

Haechan takes his hand and yanks himself up, pointedly not letting go of Mark even after he’s gotten himself upright. “I’ll make sure never to land them then, hyung,” he says quietly. 

Mark doesn’t know what to say about that so walks away, dragging his student behind him like a sack of rice. A really confusing, breathtaking sack of rice. 

That’s the thing about Haechan. He always is until he isn’t, there until he’s not, and Mark is none the wiser to where his jokes end and his half-truths begin. 

They’ve been working side by side for the better part of the last year, and still Mark can never figure out what goes on in his head outside the realm of spins and jumps. He knows Haechan’s specialty is the quad toe loop and that he prefers those flowy, satiny tops when planning costumes, but he doesn’t know what to make of everything else. 

“I think we should call it a day,” Mark says, once they reach the side of the rink. He forces himself to let go of Haechan’s hand to look for the skate guards he left on the bench. “I’ll have Kun rework the free skate music by tomorrow night, and we can give it a test run Wednesday morning. It’s basically finalized anyway, so there’s no need to—Haechan?”

The unusual silence is deafening, and when he turns around he sees Haechan with a faraway look in his eyes that has Mark pursing his lips so his heart doesn’t have to. “Is something wrong?” 

“I don’t wanna go yet,” Haechan says, cheeks tinged pink from the cold. “Let me do one last run.”

A confusing, breathtaking, _stubborn_ sack of rice. Mark lets out a frosty sigh. 

“Listen, you won’t get those jumps in a da—”

“I mean the exhibition skate,” Haechan cuts in, bringing his body closer by leaning over the rails. Mark fixates on the ice clinging to the highlights of Haechan’s fringe to avoid looking anywhere else. “The one you choreographed... for me?” 

Haechan’s words taper at the end, betraying an uncertainty that catches Mark off guard.

“All of a sudden?” Mark cocks his head to the side, this time daring to look his student in the eye. “Why? You haven’t brought that up in weeks.”

“You said so yourself.” Haechan shrugs, pushing off the ledge to spin absentminded circles on the ice. “NHK is in a couple of weeks and the roster’s no joke. I have to know what it feels like to dance to my exhibition so I know what it feels like to win.” 

“And then what?” 

“Then I’ll run with it.” Haechan’s movements come to an abrupt stop, spraying a flurry fine ice everywhere. “I’ll run with the feeling all the way to the finals and that’s how I’ll give you your gold, Mark.” 

There’s a fire in Haechan’s eyes that seems to melt everything around him—the ice, the dawn, and the scattered remains of Mark’s dwindling resolve. It’s another one of those things that could be one or the other, and Mark can whirl himself dizzy on a sit spin for days and still not understand what Haechan could possibly mean by giving him gold.

“It’s not mine to earn,” Mark says eventually. “But neither will it be yours if you go around injuring yourself before we even make it to Japan.” 

“I won’t even do the jumps if you don’t want me to!” Haechan exclaims, feet making little stomping movements on the ice. He flips switches so fast that Mark only has to blink to be faced with an entirely different him. “ _Please_ , Mark. Just—just let me dance.” 

Mark doesn’t know what makes him do it—if it’s the small pout on Haechan’s face or the prospect of seeing him skate to something Mark made specifically for him—but it doesn’t matter because the next thing he knows he’s walking towards the soundboard, and Haechan’s high-pitched squeal is echoing through the rink as he takes center stage. 

“Just one run,” he shouts, to which Haechan enthusiastically nods, and then the euphoric slow jam of his exhibition piece begins to stream out of the overhanging speakers. 

Mark stands there, head over his shoulders and arms folded on his chest, watching as Haechan slowly unfurls from his starting position on the ice. 

It’s a bit like watching a flower bloom, except it blooms and blooms and never stops until every stretch of white has been sprinkled in something Mark can only call brilliance. In the span of five short minutes the rink would no doubt turn into a garden, but Mark knows more than anyone that none of the spectators would remember what it’s like to breathe.

It’s exhilarating watching him skate; to a song Mark spent countless nights listening to, no less. 

Haechan makes good on his promise of skipping the jumps, replacing them instead with free-spirited spins that are no less impressive, if only because it’s him who executes them. Seeing him dance in the flesh always takes his breath away, but even through the cracked screen of his Android phone nearly a year ago, Mark had known that the name Lee Haechan would redefine the face of figure skating if he hadn't already. 

His technique is top-shelf and the fluidity of his motions is a thing of the gods. Together it makes for perfection made flesh, and Mark thinks that if they had the chance to compete together years ago then maybe, _maybe_ he wouldn’t have stepped off the ice. 

But that would have meant that Mark couldn’t get Haechan like this: beautiful in constant flowing motion, alone in the wee hours of the morning, performing for a special audience of one. 

If Mark had met Haechan on the ice, he’s a hundred percent sure they would have been at each other’s throats 24/7. Enough to toe the line of angry hotel room hook-ups, maybe. But at the end of the day they still would have hated each other, and that’s a reality Mark never wants to consider.

He’d much rather stay like this: watching from the sidelines and cradling his heart in secret as if it were a stolen flame. This way he can laugh with him freely, watch the sunrise in his eyes every morning on the drive home, and give out unabashed applause when the rest of the song bleeds out at the mercy of Lee Haechan’s unrivaled artistry.

“What do you think?” Haechan yells, running towards Mark as soon as the track ends. His breath is still erratic from having finished his piece, but his face is bursting with the glow of satisfaction.

“I think you deserve a nap.” Mark smiles, handing him his skate guards. They’re purple and they picked them out last month because Haechan had grown tired of red. “You look like you’re about to pass out.” 

“If I pass out now, will you carry me to the car?” 

“Yeah, sure.” Mark shrugs. “But don’t blame me if the car goes to the airport and ships you back to Korea.” 

Haechan punches him for that. “Asshole,” he mutters, waddling his way to the empty locker rooms to change. Mark laughs and tells him to not to fall asleep in the shower.

The sky is no longer dark when they re-emerge into the world, with Mark locking the rink behind him and Haechan yawning his way to the passenger seat of Mark’s Civic. These car rides are rarely ever silent, but Haechan seems to be extra sleepy today in his oversized hoodie that Mark doesn’t push. Not much, anyway.

“What was the feeling?” he asks, reaching over to buckle Haechan in before fixing his own seat belt. 

Haechan just answers him with a dumb _huh?—_ his wits no doubt already half asleep. “What’re you talking ‘bout?”

“You said you wanted to skate the exhibition piece to know what it feels like to win,” Mark says. “So what did it feel like?”

A beat stretches long enough after the question that Mark thinks Haechan has completely fallen asleep, but a glance at his side shows Haechan deep in thought. So Mark just sits there patiently in silence, watching the sun climb out of its cot in the clouds. After a while, the answer Haechan comes up with is something that comes in a can: soup. 

“Soup?” Mark echoes. “Victory felt like… soup?” 

“Yeah, like—” Haechan cuts himself off, opens his mouth, and then closes it again. “Remember when I got the sniffles a couple of weeks ago, and you came by to make me soup?”

Mark remembers. He waited for Haechan to turn up for practice at 3 AM like he normally does, only to find out that his star student had apparently knocked himself cold with antihistamines the night before. Turns out the neighbors adopted a new toy poodle, and according to Haechan it was so adorable that he forgot about his allergies. 

He chuckles, shaking his head at the memory. “What about it?”

“You made a really big batch,” Haechan recalls, putting his socked feet up to his chest and turning sideways to look at Mark. “And it’s all I ended up eating for days afterwards, even when I got better.”

“How is that a win?” 

“Exactly,” Haechan says, and Mark just stares. “At first it was really overwhelming. Like for a while I was just asking myself, what was I going to do with all of this chicken soup? I didn’t even have enough noodles for the pot you made. But then I heated it up and tasted it again and... yeah.” 

“Yeah?” 

Haechan nods as he shuts his eyes, “That’s what I wanna feel like for the rest of my life.” 

The sun has begun its steady ascent over the horizon, and Mark watches as the light paints the side of Haechan’s face in a golden glow. Mark always thinks he’s lovely, but Haechan like this—sleep soft in his car and thinking about soup—might be the most beautiful Mark has ever seen him in his life.

“Soup, huh.” Mark muses, infinitely glad that Haechan can’t see the smile creeping up his face. “At least that’s one thing you never have to compete for.”

Haechan’s eyes flutter open, and his voice is tiny when he asks, “Can we have soup, Mark?”

“Now?” Mark asks, eyeing the exhaustion on Haechan’s face. “Don’t you wanna sleep?” 

He shakes his head, soft hair bristling against the seat. “Soup,” he says. “All I want is soup. All the time.”

Mark laughs, hands on the wheel and nowhere near his heart even if it feels like it’s going to burst out of its seams. He doesn’t know if it matters that it’s his, or if Haechan just really likes any random selection of vegetables in broth. But he knows he'll get Haechan’s brilliant smile if he says yes, and really, that’s all that matters. 

“Okay then,” Mark says. He starts the car and feels Haechan next to him break out into a little soup dance. “Let’s do that.” 

**Author's Note:**

> random bits and bobs:
> 
> \- haechan was among the little fans who cried when mark said he was gonna retire. 🥺  
> \- johnny is ten's coach, which is why mark knows not to take the competition lightly.  
> \- jungwoo choreographed Haechan's short program and free skate, and the reason why haechan's so sleepy is because ballet training ran late the night before.  
> \- the name of the toy poodle next door is _pancake_! 🥞
> 
> i used to follow professional figure skating when i was a teenager and i also happen to be a really big fan of the weeknd. the song die for you came on shuffle a couple days ago and i couldn't get the mental image of hyuck skating to it out of my head. so this happened haha! let me know what you think! kudos and comments appreciated! 
> 
> [twt](https://twitter.com/whitenoisce) or [cc](https://curiouscat.qa/whitenoisce)


End file.
